The Call of Duty
by Punzie the Platypus
Summary: Sherlock Holmes has the unfortunate task of enduring jury duty.


_**Soli Deo gloria**_

**DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own Sherlock. A couple months ago, I came up with the idea of putting a character through the delicious torture of jury duty, and my sister suggested Sherlock. XD.**

**This takes place before the end of season 2, simply because in season 3 _John and Sherlock don't get along a whole lot and that makes me mad_.**

There was a large stack of papers hanging off the corner of the kitchen table. They meant absolutely nothing, of course. The dirty teacups with their floating eyeballs and dismembered spleens in the casserole dish took up far more precious space. So much that The Stack, as John called the mail, was always purposely ignored, labeled 'unimportant' and literally taking up no rooms in Sherlock's head.

Sometimes Mrs. Hudson would go through it, just to keep her boys up-to-date. Otherwise she feared Scotland Yard would come arresting them for something other than just a drug bust. But it was John who was sorting through them, wondering if anyone wanted to communicate with him besides creditors and spammers, when he happened upon something.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, have you seen this?" John turned to see Sherlock in a pale polo in a strange position on his couch. Oh, moping again. It had been three weeks.

"Add context to the situation, John." Sherlock had his eyes closed.

"You got something in the mail."

"Well, isn't that interesting. Is it another fan letter? Add it to the stack." Sherlock's hand limply pointed to the stack in the corner he was meaning to throw in the rubbish bin.

"Nope." John tossed the letter onto Sherlock's chest. "Your country needs you, Sherlock."

"Again? Don't they ever give me a break? Don't they have competence? Wait, of course not. That's why they need me. Such a silly question."

"Open it, Sherlock," John said, taking a seat in his chair.

"If it was urgent, they would have sent it via an email. I don't care."

"I will look at it, then."

"That's illegal. . . Go ahead."

"Sherlock, really."

"'Sherlock, really,'" Sherlock said, sighing in a mocking tone as he sat up and ripped through the envelope with quick fingers. His eyes scanned the paper—regular office paper, nothing special—toner that was running low on ink—oh, a misspelled word, the secretary was suffering from loss of sleep and needed glasses—oh damn. How tedious.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and tossed the letter onto his desk.

"What'd it say?" John wondered.

"They've resorted to begging. Oh, they make it sound like a public service, but what would they do without me? They will do anything. Oh, they must be so pleased that my name and time finally came up. I hope it's a murder."

John blinked, confused and thoughtful. So instead of getting vague answers out of the world's second oldest child, he grabbed the letter and read it himself. Then he held it and laughed. His laugh was good and hearty and earned. Sherlock didn't like how exactly it was directed toward him.

"Oh, shut up, John." Sherlock pressed fingers against his nose and appeared irritated.

"No. No, see, _this_ is funny!" John laughed, leaning his head against his hand.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Looks like you got assigned a case."

"A predetermined case. There are going to be opinions and biases weighing in. I could almost feel bad for the loser," Sherlock said.

"If it's a murder case, the loser is the dead guy, Sherlock," John said.

"Yes, I suppose so."

"It says you have to send this back within a week."

"All right."

"It's two weeks old."

"Yeah."

"Sherlock!" John said.

"Do they even care, John? I'll just show up. I don't want to, but I will merely because being in your presence for an entire day sounds far more miserable."

"Oh, look at that. Sherlock Holmes looking forward to jury duty." John rolled his eyes.

* * *

Oh, like Sherlock would _really_ look forward to sitting all day in an uncomfortable chair amongst eleven unlucky others all smelling of sweat and perfumes and listening to the woebegone plaintiff rambling on and on about the defendant rear ending their car or whatnot. Nothing like bringing all these people's time and effort into such a small complaint but what was Sherlock to do? He couldn't fight it, merely because there was nothing to fight it _with_. No new cases, a grey, blustery day out, and John was at the confounded clinic. Mrs. Hudson left him after two minutes, wringing her hands of his dry humor, and he was so _bored_.

So, bristling, he fetched his good coat and ignored the flapped hat on the table and kept his collar up as he took a cab to the courthouse steps. He walked with purpose, so he ignored all those going up and down the steps, filming news segments or getting dragged down in cuffs.

He entered and brought his head up and looked around. Correctly finding the correct door to the line of ordinary citizens he wished to avoid, he brought his stride towards there, ignoring completely the stares of shock coming from the staff on having _Sherlock_ _Holmes_ there. He hadn't been here for three weeks, and, being a London celebrity, would have been hounded by blustering fans if only they grabbed their nerves with their sweaty palms instead of standing stock still like a bunch of scared rabbits. However, the absolute shock to their system cost them, and made Sherlock smile, horrible, as he went towards the Crown Courts.

Security was blustering, though, why wouldn't they? Oh, terribly annoyed, they gave him a pass and sent him on his way, worried that he wouldn't get there in time. But he turned up, opening the door into the large courtroom, to have all eyes on him. Just how he liked it. Center of attention, as usual.

He stepped in and saw the Judge staring at him beneath his scroll of wig.

"Good morning, Judge Howell," Sherlock said politely, "have we started yet?"

The Judge stared hard at him. "Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock bowed slightly. "In the flesh, sir." He held up his pass. "I believe I am juror candidate number . . . twenty?" He quirked his eyebrows. Many members of the Court rolled their eyes. Sherlock Holmes, of course, could waltz right in—

"Take your seat."

Sherlock took a seat amongst nineteen other candidates in another part of the courthouse. On the whole, he was conflicted. Logically, he should not want to spend his precious time trying to bring his own opinion between two fighting parties. The other part, the other human, oh so _bored_ part craved for his name to be picked. He was sure he would somehow make it into the twelve. His ability was widespread in fame.

Being interviewed, he was as calm and collected as a robot. Taking a second to see the humans out of the corner of his eye, he saw many sniffling from the cold, many impatient with their habits of biting their nails, tapping their fingers, and making vulgar grunting noises in the back of their throats. Oh, to be like them. Oh, he would die.

He was a shoo-in (at random—oh please, they would never draw his name randomly. The schemers—) and beheld the defendant as the group of twelve he was collected in was held for inspection:

"William Absworth, the names that you are about to hear called are the names of the jurors who are to try you. If therefore you wish to object to them or to any of them, you must do so as they come to the book to be sworn, and before they are sworn, and your objection will be heard." (Said the clerk.)

Sherlock took in the sight of this one William Absworth. His hands cupped at his sides—habit while nervous, holding the pooling sweat—he knew he was guilty in his crime—Otherwise, completely and utterly ordinary.

Sherlock smiled at him. The danger when his name was read of him being kicked off due to the defendant knowing all too well of the excellent works of Sherlock Holmes was high. Enough to sustain adrenaline in Sherlock for a brief moment.

William Absworth approved of him. Oh, what joy! Oh, what a stupid, stupid man. Sherlock knew him guilty already. It was just a matter of finding their evidence and producing his deductions as simply as possible so the common man could comprehend them. Well, that was one reason. But another: Mr. Absworth was a man living on the wild side. He wanted to test the amazing Sherlock. Oh, a convict with nerve. Oh, brilliant. A thrill to the game once more.

Each juror was then sworn in. Sherlock took his seat, his fingers playing with his pass. He caught the eye of Mr. Absworth as he sat nervously in his seat with his lawyer. He winked at him. The defendant stared, unabashed, at the detective. Sherlock wouldn't lose eye contact for the world, leading the defendant to flick his eyes to the floor before long.

The Judge sighed, from the clear indignation already being pass back and forth via eye contact and unsubtle body language between one of the parties and his star juror. The gavel in his hand felt heavier than ever. He felt in a mood to swing it ever so willingly today.

The clerk stood up and the entire audience turned their eyes onto this one man. Dressed in a suit with a distinguished mustache, he said in a practiced tone mellowed by years of repeating: "To this indictment he has pleaded not guilty and it is your charge to say, having heard the evidence, whether he be guilty or not. " (The defendant straightened, realizing that the 'he' was indeed himself.)

Eleven jurors listened to the case, but Sherlock sighed irritably as he caught the details that matter and discarded the rest. It was indeed a murder, yes; Sherlock grabbed all those clues leading to motives and alibi and then dilly-dallied. The opening statements had bored him with how their staters mechanically relied their opinionated version of the case. Oh, he knew conceited like the back of his hand (took one to know another a bearer of the same trait) and labeled each and every person who spoke with it. The general gist was thrown and once details were weeded out of the flowery words and strong injections, Sherlock fingered his pass, getting his fingerprints all over the disgusting thing.

Then he spent the next hour taking the occasional notice of the tedious witness statements and bristled. Nothing was _happening_. Nothing eye-opening in the slightest. The man obviously murdered his wife. That simple. But everybody felt the need to take their day as long as they could, seeing as they had it, and he wouldn't stand for it.

None of the other jurors could stand for _him_. Too pissed because of being in court for their mandatory civil duty, they found this celebrity more irksome than awe-inspiring, as he tapped his feet and took to whistling, muttering obscenities, rolling his eyes, and chuckling at random intervals as he had small conversations with himself. They avoided eye contact with the freak and those sitting next to him, one a tiny grandmother and the other a secretary with long black hair, shifted so they left much room between them and him. Out of the corner of eyes from those in the corner of the seats came scrutinizing glances and appraising judgments. Sherlock, however, couldn't care about what these persons thought about him. He could never change their opinion once however quickly formed it was, so why change it? He lacked in human sensitivity, yet he knew their tendencies all too well.

The closing arguments took forever because they were not simply discussion but _arguments_. Oh, anger flew about with the spit from their practiced mouths. Sherlock kept the clock on his alert like a smart kid finished in class twenty minutes early.

Fortunately, though, this meeting had started at a reasonable hour. So lunch came along soon, and the arguments were put on hold. Sherlock stood up first as soon as the Judge called for a luncheon break. An hour all to his own. He flicked up his collar and walked straight out, once again, as he always did, grabbing the eyes of all in the courts. Even the plaintiff was scared.

Fifty minutes later, he came back from his searching of the courthouse. It was an excellent playground, full of high-tech securities and upper levels dripping with security guards. He was pushed out twice and apprehended once and after holding what he thought was a bantering conversation was frisked and then shoved away. He came out into the grand foyer, where the rest of the jurors were gathering in a group, like sheep being reined in by a sheep dog, ruffled and irritated with the whole of humanity.

"What were you doing? We didn't see you at lunch. Worried you ran away," said the grandmother, craning her neck just to see his face.

"Oh, I had far more exciting adventures to have than those of stuffing my face," Sherlock said, keeping his eyes straight ahead. The clock spun in his mind: less than six hours until he left. With his knowledge, this trial wouldn't last for more than a day. He only had to be able to speak with the rest of his jury.

"Don't you eat? Aren't you hungry?" inquired the old lady. She stuck out her hand. "Marge Abury."

Sherlock recognized the task to be performed and shook her hand. "Sherlock Holmes. Consulting detective." His front came back around and his hands kept nestled in his pockets, where they shook out of habit.

"Oh. I sort mail. I've got cranberry muffins in my purse. My granddaughter Gina made them. You sure?" Marge wondered.

"I'm perfectly all right." Sherlock said no more.

Marge shrugged, a little confused by this strange man, and fronted once more.

Another hour of arguing later (made longer by how many times Sherlock sighed and groaned), the Judge presented the jury with a list of rules like that of a parent giving children a huge decision to make and what each decision curtailed. The jury were then escorted from the courtroom by the court usher, who Sherlock had talked to before and knew to be named Robert, to 'some place private.' No one could know; no one could talk to them. The secrecy surrounding shrouded them. Eleven jurors were curious, scared looking, and suspicious as they were led past many rooms and doors of the courthouse; one walked with confidence and an air of absolute arrogance. He commended himself on his perfect memory and prediction as they were ushered into the room he knew they would be pushed into, like a mother duck leading her ducklings to their little nest.

The court usher locked the door and left the twelve of them imprisoned to talk over the two arguments like two children left to agree to get along after a fight.

Around a long table were twelve folded-out chairs. Seated were a few, while others stood.

"I think we should first lay down the basics and what we all feel right now," one man said. He was round, salt-and-pepper hair, in a sweater, with age weighing on his youth with a heavy hand.

"That sounds like a plan," Marge said.

"Oh, you people amuse me. Really." All eyes went to the pariah in the corner, the calm, pale detective. "Only for a minute or two. Then the boredom comes back over. Almost a relief after hearing your repetitive voices, your non-stop ranting."

"You," one said, a young dentist's assistant, from his hands and eyes following everyone, including the men and the older ladies', mouths. Always quick to appraise teeth as a following judgment of a person.

"Yes. Tis I." Sherlock gave a surprisingly warm smile before wiping it immediately from his face. Then he caught the eyes of the first man who had taken control of the case. "You. Your name."

"Can't you deduce it?" The man's voice was a very gentle voice.

"Nothing stupid and new, the age is too obvious on you, so a good old-fashioned name," Sherlock said. "That's all I've got. _But_," and he stood up, "I've got everything about the case, from the good, the bad, the ugly, and the downright stupid. We needn't discuss this; none of you need to talk. Just listen, because I can tell you how it went down—"

"No, you can't," said the young lady who was unfortunate in having to have sat by Sherlock for several hours. She stood up. "It has to be unanimous. We all need to come to a decision by ourselves."

"But I have the evidence in mind and the eye to catch whatever other human eye cannot possibly detect. You don't understand, obviously, so shall I explain the rules of the game to you?" Sherlock said contemptuously.

"No. I want you to bare your theory and we shall _discuss_ it and certainly _not_ accept whatever you spoon-feed us," the lady said hotly.

"Your name?" Sherlock said calmly.

"Frank," said the first man.

Sherlock blinked, but kept his eyes on the lady. "I wasn't asking you."

"Lea," the lady said evenly. She waved a hand toward the table and said, "Present your case before the court, Mr. Holmes."

All took seats and dared not speak a word as at the end of the table, Sherlock cleared his throat, having made the decision to do whatever it took to get these simple-minded people to listen to him.

"Our poor defendant, Mr. Absworth, is guilty." Before anyone could do more than open their mouths, Sherlock held up a hand. "Yes, he is. Don't argue with me and save your questions until the end. Then," he began to walk slowly around the room. The entire room lacked prestige and was so Spartan it was sad. A few windows covered in shades; shame. "He murdered his wife for the usual petty domestic reasons all laced with immoral practices. She was obviously cheating on him, and he knew it. Bad timing on his part led to the death of poor Mrs. Absworth, though being away from such a husband can only be called sweet relief."

Many around the table had their arms folded and grim faces. His request to keep questions to the end did little to hold control over their tongues as the young dentist's said, "We know that. Well, that the case is him murdering his wife. But how did you come to that conclusion?"

"Yeah, and how could you derive that from the evidence when none of the rest of us could?" asked a young punk who still lived with his parents.

"I have an eye for deduction. Seriously, have you never heard of me?" Sherlock sounded surprised.

"I don't pay attention to the police and their matters," the punk said.

"Ah, so you know I am attached to the police. How?" Sherlock asked. Then a moment passed. "Oh, you've been in the station more than a few times. How did you come to be on the jury?"

"Minor offenses. Didn't do much to my record. Just community service." The punk scowled.

Sherlock tapped his fingers against the bridge of his nose. "Andrew, right?"

The punk nodded.

"Tell me how I found the evidence," Sherlock said encouragingly. "Come on, show me your skills. Or haven't you any?"

"He didn't have a ring on his finger," Andrew said. "Accused of murdering his wife and he has no ring."

"But how did that lead to me not figuring he was the one cheating on her?" Sherlock said.

"Because he looked genuinely sorry he killed her," Andrew said.

"First of all, no. I don't find human sentiment helpful. No, the sweat slicked his ring off. But he had it in his pocket. But not his wedding ring he was playing with the entire case. It was _h__ers_. It was not in the evidence pile so it wasn't found at the crime scene. She left it away from her person. He has it in his possession now. No wedding ring on her, obviously no meaningful marriage. Thus, she cheated, he killed her, and the guilt—" Sherlock pointed his finger all over his cheeks, "—written all over his face. An ugly emotion."

"So your starting theory is that he murdered his wife. You're convinced there. But how did he?" asked a woman with short hair and a long nose.

"Name? Really, I can't keep asking you all for your titles," Sherlock said impatiently.

"You didn't listen when we told them our names?"

"Heh. No. I record and take only what I feel the need to take in. Your name were arbitrary before. Now I need them for a form of communication, or else I'll be forced to give you each a number and hope you respond when I call," Sherlock said unkindly. He pointed to each in turn. "Name." So their names were said with annoyance-laced tones. Sherlock pushed out the tone and kept the names and promptly addressed the short-haired woman.

"Rebekah. Let me continue."

"Here we go," Reg, the dentist's assistant, said, sitting back, tired and bored.

"Shut up, will you. You're lowering the IQ of the entire room. The only person I know to have done that before is not here, so you've earned a new rank," Sherlock said, to the protest of the jurors.

"Let him speak!"

"He's as much a juror as you!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh, democracy." He waved his fingers and closed his eyes, effectively trapping out the inane words of the juror. After a moment or two of fruitless words, Sherlock caught the end of his sentence and realized his time to take the stand again. Sherlock jumped up and said, clapping his hands together, "Well, how enlightening, how terribly inspiring. Right." He straightened. "My turn."

"You've had your turn," said Reg.

"Yes, but you interrupted me. You all owe me. And believe me, the faster I go about this, the faster you can return to your little, unimportant lives." Sherlock gave them the funniest smile, and then continued on in his explanation as he had done a hundred times to the impatient but attentive audiences consisting of John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, or Molly. "So the case stands that Mr. Absworth has murdered his wife. It's quite clear how it was done. Perhaps he was hoping for me to be put on this case. In whatever way, he didn't balk at my showing up on this case. Either the guilt is consuming him and his lawyer won't listen to his pleas of wanting to plea guilty. He hopes me to do it for him. I am somewhat of a hope to him, though I don't understand why people put any hope in anyone or anything. Anyway, he obviously murdered her without meaning to, as the murder was done via a bludgeon via a large, heavy object to the head on poor Mrs. Absworth. Evidence would show that the object is a large vase. Not the object you would pick up as a murder weapon, right? So obviously a spur of a moment plan." Sherlock was now pacing the room. His hands played together in front of him, his eyes clear and focused as he walked back and forth, commanding his reluctant audience to watch his every move. "Not premeditated. That should lower our sentence on him. Anyway, it was a late evening of the murder. Past midnight. The lights were on in one room of their house, and all doors locked. The murdered victim was dressed for a night about town. Obviously not for bed." He stopped and looked at his audience for a single moment. None knew if he was looking for any remark from them or a contradiction of his deductions.

Then Sherlock simply shrugged. "He discovered her. He said nothing about being up for any good reason. His alibi is not good at all." Sherlock stopped pacing, his hands in a praying position in front of him. "So he murdered her passing through their living room. I can assume there was an argument before he implemented the murder. That or he had had slight inklings and decided to not allow himself to be persuaded by any of her words. Quick, fast, but not necessarily clean." He caught the eyes of each juror in turn. "Anything else to add before I call the usher to take us back to clean up this mess and finish this miserable task?"

"No, wait a moment!" Reg said, half-standing. "That's assuming so many things."

Sherlock sighed. All the rules of the jury were streaming like codes through a computer in his head; he knew them like the back of his hand, the main one being that the jury's verdict had to be unanimous. "Why are you so possessed to encumber everything?" Sherlock whispered, vexed.

"I am trying to give this man a fair trial! Don't know what's wrong with him, having you call the shots about his life!" Reg said, turning quite fierce, though he remained still small and quite mild looking.

"But Sherlock has come to something. It seems about right," Marge said.

"Could you at least explain how you've come to the conclusions?" Rebekah asked, trying to stop the talking before they got on. She, too, as like Sherlock and many of the impatient, exhausted citizens sitting around the table, were as ready to get out as a grizzly bear in spring.

Sherlock said dryly, "Vase had blood on it with the husband's fingerprints. Indent in victim's head. Victim has confirmed lover, victim goes out into the night dressed nicely. Husband distressed, husband keeps sweating, pair that with the time and place of the murder and really, who else could have done it? The victim? Oh, please. Spare me. He did it. End of story. _Nothing_ else. So please take this truth, or else how much longer are we to sit here, until I die of boredom? Done it several times in my own apartment, I'd _really_ rather not do it here."

Of course, as the human race is, the eleven other jurors discussed and bickered and completely ignored the logical to think upon more fanciful things than Sherlock's deductions. This left the detective pacing back and forth, privately thinking how terribly _stupid_ these people were. He was a _detective_, for Pete's sake. It was his _job_ to catch criminals and derive conclusions from evidence. This room was filled with grandmothers and janitors and dentists and bus drivers and secretaries and factory workers. If John was here, he'd tell Sherlock to hear what they had to say, mostly because other humans were usually far more clever than Sherlock would ever give them credit for. John, however, was gone on this day, leaving Sherlock quite alone and unbabysat, so he looked on with distaste and amusement and rolling of eyes as they continued on and on and _on_ until they finally sighed mightily and discussed the points of Sherlock's deductions.

"I'd really rather have this case over by today. I have my grandson to visit tomorrow," Marge said, sounding very tired.

Frank turned to Sherlock, who was slouched off by himself in the corner. "Sherlock?"

"Yes?" Sherlock said, without opening his eyes.

"I think we're going to put your theory to a vote."

"About time." Sherlock opened his eyes and watched as Frank said, "All voting with Sherlock's theory, leaving the verdict as guilty, raise your hand."

Slowly the hands raised. Then with more power, the rest did, as if they had truly accepted it not as an excuse to get out early, but as the actual truth, as it was so clearly. Then they all looked to Sherlock.

He raised his hand.

* * *

John, to his credit, was standing outside the courthouse waiting for his friend after he was released from the will of the Judge. He appeared and John said, "Look who survived."

"I wasn't going to die in there, John," Sherlock said briskly, as the two kept pace down the stairs.

"I wouldn't have guaranteed that, actually," John said, hands in his pockets. "So, what kind of case?"

"Murder," Sherlock said.

"I can guess the verdict, then."

"Murder, of the second degree."

"Oh, fascinating. Glad to be out, then?"

The two came to the sidewalk and the crowds, and began to hurry to find a taxi.

"Oh, John. I've never been happier to step out of a courthouse. Really, that should have been illegal. It was a fascinating, legal way of torture, if you ask me."

"That will last you a couple of years, then," John said conclusively.

"What, John?" Sherlock said, sounding deadly.

"You've got to serve again. You probably will, in a couple years."

"John," Sherlock said, "why do you say such an ugly truth?"

"It's not like you don't," John said quickly, shutting Sherlock quite up. Though, this caused a dark itch to take hold on Sherlock's mind. Now that thought was tucked away in his Mind Palace, a tight little place full of disagreeing people, forever promising to drag him back to his unfortunate duty.

Oh, he couldn't live in peace now, could he?

**I haven't watched much Law and Order UK, so forgive, please, my inaccuracies in portraying England's legal system. **


End file.
